


The Bandage Bypass

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Misses [2]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 13:59:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17644163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten





	The Bandage Bypass

Robin finished up the last of her notes, saved the file and switched the computer off. She stretched, then stood and moved to the kitchenette to wash up today’s mugs. Friday night. Drinks at the Tottenham.

Her stomach fluttered a little. She had been sure that something nearly happened last Friday. They’d not been for Friday drinks for ages, life and cases taking over, and so it had felt like a rare treat. She’d had a third glass of wine, been a little tipsy. She had a feeling, looking back, that she might have flirted with Strike. She remembered how dark his eyes were, deep pools of fond warmth that she had wanted to drown in. Next morning she had buried her head under her pillows in mortification, trying to block out memories of gazing at him, unable to tear her eyes away.

But everything had been normal on Monday, and all week. Nothing in Strike’s behaviour or attitude towards her had given any indication that anything had changed.

He had leaned in too, though. He had held her eye contact. Maybe tonight...

Robin shivered. _Stop it,_ she told herself. _He’s your friend and colleague, remember._ But, oh, those dark eyes, those strong arms, that hair she longed to touch...

His heavy tread on the stairs made her jump, pulled her from her reverie. It was just a normal Friday. Unless she said something. Or made a move.

The door opened and Robin shrieked a little. Strike held up his hands. “It’s not as bad as it looks!”

Robin stared at him, frozen for a shocked moment. His right eye was swollen shut and the left was rapidly following suit. Above the swollen eye, a cut on his eyebrow was clearly responsible for the blood that was smeared down his bruised cheek. The left side of his face was badly scuffed and grazed, bleeding a little.

Robin sprang into action. _First aid kit. Warm water. Concussion? Get him to sit._

“Sit down,” she ordered, pointing to the sofa. She grabbed the first aid kit from the top of the filing cabinet behind her desk. “What on earth happened?”

“Tosser took a swing at me,” Strike grumbled, moving to sit on the little sofa. “I’d have got out of the way but there was a concrete pillar. Kind of got smushed between that and his fist. Not as bad as it looked. Shanker dealt with him.”

“Oh, God,” Robin muttered, hunting through the kit for gauze. “Is everyone else alive?”

Strike chucked, then winced a little. “Yeah, we just roughed them up a bit,” he said. “Shanker, amazingly, not a mark on him. He’s like a terrier in a fight.”

Robin rolled her eyes and moved to the sink to wash her hands. “You don’t have to sound so _proud,_ ” she said. “You two are as bad as my brothers. Grown men, all of you.” She approached him with a wad of damp kitchen roll and knelt in front of him.

“I’m fine,” Strike muttered, but she gave him a stern look. “Those wounds need cleaning or they’ll get infected,” she said. “God knows what germs lurk in underground car parks.”

Strike sighed and acquiesced.

Up close, she could see it wasn’t too bad. Her left hand braced on his shoulder, she gently wiped away the worst of the blood, dabbing at his eyebrow and the grazes on his left cheek. It had mostly stopped bleeding.

Strike was very still under her hands, letting her work. Had his eyes drifted closed or were they just swollen shut? He breathed slowly through his mouth, and she wondered if his nose had taken a hit too. It did look a little swollen.

“Did you black out at all?”

Strike shook his head a little and winced again. “No, didn’t actually hit my head that hard.”

“You still ought to get checked out for concussion.”

“I’ve had worse. I know the signs. I’ll be fine.”

Robin set her mouth into a thin line, but didn’t argue. She leaned to his left to examine the grazes on his cheekbone. Was that a bruise up at his hairline?

“You sure you didn’t bang your head?” Her fingers touched the bruise gently and slid higher, looking for swelling. His curly hair was so dense, she had to feel her way. It was soft and springy, not wiry like she’d expected, warm under her touch. She ran her fingers through it gently, mesmerised.

Strike didn’t answer for a long moment. Robin suddenly realised she had one hand in his hair and one on the side of his face, her mouth inches from his cheek. She pulled back hurriedly, warmth coiling in her stomach. _What is wrong with me? He’s hurt._

“Quite sure,” he murmured, his voice husky, his eyes closed.

Blushing a little, Robin turned back to the first aid kit for the antiseptic cream. She busied herself concentrating on opening the tube, keeping her head down, hiding her pink cheeks. Then she took a steadying breath and gently applied the cream to his grazes, her fingertips ghosting across his cheek. His breath caught, and she drew back, afraid she was hurting him.

The cut on his eyebrow was bleeding again. Robin wondered if it needed stitching, and said so. Strike pulled a face. “Just patch it up,” he said. “I’m not spending Friday night in A&E, I’ll be hours and hours.” His voice was a little unsteady, and Robin wondered if he was more in pain than he was letting on.

She nodded, and hunted in the kit again for plasters. “I don’t have one big enough,” she said. “Here, hold this on it, it’s still bleeding.”

Strike held the wad of kitchen roll to his eyebrow while Robin thought.

“We need to hold it closed,” she said. “I can stick gauze on it, but we need to pull the edges together really. I might have to wrap your head.”

“I can’t go to the pub looking like a mummy,” Strike protested.

“You can’t go to the pub anyway,” Robin said sternly. “You shouldn’t drink if you might be concussed. And I can see you rolling your eyes even when they’re swollen shut, you know.”

Strike laughed a little. “And it hurts,” he admitted. “Okay, no pub. I’ll have a quiet night in. Just stop it bleeding, yeah?”

In the end Strike held a gauze pad over the wound and Robin wrapped a bandage tightly round his head to hold it in place. She giggled. “You look like John McEnroe,” she said fondly, eyeing his riotous curls spilling over the top of the bandage. Both eyes were swollen now, and his nose definitely looked a little the worse for wear. One cheek was bruised, one grazed. Only his mouth had escaped, his lips parted gently as he breathed. Robin found herself suddenly fighting an urge to kiss him, to press her lips to his. They looked soft and inviting.

Strike cleared his throat and she jumped a little. He grinned at her. “I’ll try not to throw a McEnroe-style tantrum at not being allowed to go to the pub,” he said cheerfully. Robin nodded, the moment broken, and turned to busy herself packing away the first aid kit and putting the kitchen towel in the bin.

“I’ll text you later, check you’re still conscious,” she said over her shoulder. “You go on up and rest, I’ll lock up.” She put the first aid kit back it its place.

Strike, standing now, barely able to see her, nodded. “Thanks, Robin,” he said softly, his voice gentle and low.

Blushing again, Robin nodded. “No worries,” she said lightly. Strike turned and left, and she heard his heavy, deliberate tread on the stairs as he made his way carefully up to his flat.

Robin took a slow, steadying breath and reached for her coat and bag.

 

 


End file.
